


Devour

by versaillesatnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ??? idk tbh, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blasphemy, Blood Drinking, Bottom Sam, Dark, Demon Blood, Just know there's some religious stuff that's weird here, M/M, References to Addiction, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, but its sort of au-ish for all hell breaks loose, kind of character death, so i mean you know what's coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3504239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versaillesatnight/pseuds/versaillesatnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a man who follows him from one of the cities.<br/>“They say you are going to be a sacrifice,” the man says.<br/>“I am,” Sam replies.<br/>“They say you are a dogmatic fool,” the man says.<br/>“The people of the cities do not remember,” Sam replies.<br/>“I know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devour

**Author's Note:**

> This is weird as fuck lmao just know it started out with the intention to be a true fairy tale and a sort of fun new experimental writing style and it sort of devolved into this. um there is some pretty graphic violence at the end and it has some vague religious imagery throughout but i went to catholic school my formative years so like it's definitely leaning towards christian religious imagery more than anything so I don't want to offend anyone. i'll go into more details in the end notes in case you're worried about the violence, character "death", or religious imagery, or addiction. also it has not been betaed like AT ALL okay i just wrote it and then posted it up here cause I don't know what to think of it it's like dark and weird and not my usual writing style but ahahahah whatever. okay i think that's it enjoy!!

A sacrifice must be made. John watches Sam with a grim resignation.

            “They’ll have to go through me,“ John says, but he does not move to the door.

            “I will go,” Sam says, and thinks of the Miller girl, Bella, who’d left last spring. She had not returned.

            The stories all say Azazel is hungriest in the fall.

\---

            The village comes to watch the boy leave.

            “He is only eighteen,” they whisper. They do not like it when the younger ones go, but they like even less the thought of going themselves.

            Bobby gives him a cloak, and his father gives him their old black mare. She is not fit for riding, but Sam still thinks it will give him comfort.

            His only friend, Jessica, gives him the holy book.

            “Perhaps—“ she says, but she must know, because she stops and turns so Sam does not see her cry.

            Sam leaves town before dawn. He does not want to say goodbye.

\---

            The path to the altar is an old one. It winds through forests and cities that are either deserted or degenerate.

Sam knows he must not stray from the path. Still, the cities are nothing like his village.

He walks through them with his eyes low. He grips the holy book and pulls his horse behind him.

            People in the cities are very strange. They do not mock him, as he had expected. There is music, and profanity, and bare breasts, but they are not cruel to him, as Sam had thought they would be.

            Instead they speak in whispers and pointed fingers.

            Many of the degenerates offer him food and lodging, and Sam is touched.

            He cannot accept entrance to their homes, but he accepts their simplest fare, and as he consumes it, he prays that he will be able to save them all.

\---

            There is a man who follows him from one of the cities.

            He is tall and broad. His face is smooth and his mouth is very red.

            “They say you are going to be a sacrifice,” the man says.

            “I am,” Sam replies.

            “They say you are a dogmatic fool,” the man says.

            “The people of the cities do not remember,” Sam replies. 

            “I know,” the man says, and when they reach the outskirts of the city, the man does not leave him.           

            “You are called Sam,” the man says, and Sam nods.

            “Why do you follow me?” He asks.

            “I am not following you,” the man says, “I was taking this path before you got on it.”

            Sam smiles, “You are a liar,” he says.

            “Yes, Sam,” the man replies, and they carry on.

\---

            Sam wonders how long the man will stay with him. He hopes it is at least through the next patch of forest.

            Sam feels calmer with the man near. He is grateful for time on the path he does not have to spend alone.

            Sam thinks perhaps the man will leave for the city before the forest, but they pass through quietly.

            The man walks a step ahead of Sam the whole way through, and when they reach the edges, Sam asks if he has business in the city.

            “Not in this city,” the man replies, and pushes forward, one quick step ahead of Sam’s steady pace.

\---

            The man speaks too much for Sam to know so little of him, Sam thinks. The forest is not the quiet he dreaded, instead the man asks Sam of his life in the village.

            “Your girl is lovely,” the man says, stroking down the black mare’s neck.

            “She is not mine,” says Sam, “And she is not much good for anything.”

            The man makes a quiet sound.

            “She is lovely, though” Sam agrees when the man does not speak again.

            The man smiles at Sam and asks him of his father.

            The man says more in his silence than his words.

\---

            The color of the forest reminds Sam of the man’s eyes. When he tells the man this, the man looks at him strangely.

            “The forest is beautiful,” Sam says, “I do not mean to insult you.”

            “I am not insulted, Sam,” the man says.

            “Tell me,” the man says, his voice sounding low. When Sam was a child, there had been a wolf killing sheep every night. The villagers never caught it. The memory flashes in Sam’s mind.

“Is someone going to miss you terribly in the village?”

            “My father,” Sam says, although he is not entirely sure.

            “You have not left a girl in mourning?” the man asks.

            It dawns on Sam in an instance.

            “The village does not condone such things,” he says.

            The man laughs, tips his soft throat back to the stream of light through the trees.

            Sam feels his body heat and he cannot tell if it is from shame.

\---

 

            Sam reads the holy book each evening as the man minds the fire.

            “Do you read all your books fifteen times over?” the man asks him one evening.

            “I have read it more than fifteen times,” Sam replies.

            “You are not improving my perception of you,” the man says.

            Sam feels stung, but he has learned that the man is rarely serious.

            “You are teasing me,” he says, and the man quirks an eyebrow.

            “Did I offend you, Sam?” He asks.

            “Everything you do offends me,” Sam says.

            For a moment he thinks he has done it wrong. The apology is on the tip of his tongue when the man flashes his teeth, turns to Sam, makes Sam wonder at how teeth get so white.

           

\---

            Sam is not sure how long the journey is meant to be, but he did not think, setting out, that is would take more than a week.

            The path is much longer than Sam imagined, and Sam’s companion has lost his eagerness to lead.

            “We cannot linger,” he says as they pass through an empty city.

            “Sam, I know this city. There is a beautiful church not a five minute walk from the path,”

            Sam shakes his head, “If this is where we part ways, I wish you well. But I cannot leave the path.”

            The man frowns and grows quieter with each offer Sam refuses.

            “There is a stream that way,” the man says, “I could catch us fish. Do you not want a good meal?”

            “I am eating well,” Sam replies, “But if you would like to fish, I will wait for you.”

            The man does not leave, but he does not speak for many hours.

\---

            “I suppose you are not religiously inclined,” Sam says that evening, hoping to right whatever wrong he has done.

            “I am not.”

            “Why?” Sam asks.

            “Why do you think?” The man says. Sam feels the man’s anger acutely.

            “The usual reason is lack of belief, not that it is an easy feat, when you do not live in the village—“ Sam says, hasty in his efforts to soothe anything he may say to upset the man further.

            The man turns to him, shadows from the fire deepening the hollows of his face in a way that makes Sam’s breath catch.

            “Faith, I think, has always been my problem,” the man says, “I have never had trouble with believing.”

\---

            They enter a small city at the edge of the forest. There, the whispers are angrier, sharper.

            No one offers them any food, but there is not the usual bustle of the city life, either.

            “ _Monster,_ ” he hears someone hiss. He turns to look, already on edge, already coiled to his core.

            Someone puts their hands on him, pushes him to the ground.

            Sam hardly has time to comprehend it before the man has knelt, gripped his arm, and hauled him up.

            His hand does not leave him as he rounds on the crowd.

            “You will not touch him,” He says, voice low and rough as a growl. Sam shivers, does not try to escape from his grasp.

            “If you touch him,” the man says, “I will break your neck.”

            He smiles; an ugly cut of the mouth, and Sam does not doubt that he would. He is not afraid.

            The crowd does not bother them again. The man’s hand slides down to grip Sam’s wrist when they are near the end of the city. Sam aches to grasp his hand.

\---

            The man leaves Sam that evening, with promises to return with a rabbit for the both of him.

            Sam sits by the fire and worries until he cannot keep it going anymore, until the ashes start to go cold.

            He does not sleep. He does not feel the exhaustion from the violence of the city, of the cold, hungry night.

            He is trembling as dawn approaches, partly from the cold, partly from worry.

            He hears branches cracking in the forest as dawn approaches, pink bleeding into the black of the night.

            “Hello?”

            The man appears through the brush, rabbit hanging bloody from the hand he uses to gesture a greeting to Sam.

            “Sam,” the man says, and as soon as he is close enough, Sam grabs his arm, pulls him to the ground next to him.

            When leans over to kiss him, he smells like blood.

\---

            The man does not walk in front of him anymore. They move slowly through the forest, Sam and the man side by side.

            The man pauses often, grips the back of Sam’s neck hard, and kisses him.

            Sam had kissed Jessica when he was younger, an innocent, children’s game.

            This is nothing at all like that.

            When the man kisses him, Sam feels his body heat from deep in his stomach, blooding pooling hot and hard and painful in his cock. He wants to get closer. He wants to feel more.

            He knows it is not right, but he cannot bring himself to push the man away.

            “I do not even know your name,” he says.

            The man smiles, leans forward to kiss Sam again, uses his tongue to trace Sam’s bottom lip.

            Sam melts against him, a quiet groan escaping him. The man opens his mouth further, and swallows the sound.

\---

            Sam trembles the first time the man undresses him. The man slides his shirt off, his pants already undone, and Sam cannot bring himself reciprocate. He feels too hot for any clothing, ashamed at his nudity, wanting to see more of the man in front of him.

            The man traces a finger down Sam’s chest.

            “I can stop, Sam,” he says quietly, leans down to kiss him again.

            Sam shakes his head, grips the hand the man is tracing Sam’s nipples with, holds it.

            “I want to do this,” Sam says, “Before—“

            The man shushes him.

            “I do not want to speak of that.”

            The man is gentle with Sam, in a way Sam was not expecting.

            He kisses him, touches him and grinds against him until Sam stops trembling entirely.

            Then he slides down Sam’s body, pushes his legs apart, and takes his cock into his mouth, runs his free hand to Sam’s hole and brushes across it.

            Sam whimpers like an animal, thinks that this is sin, this is shameful.

            When the man pushes into Sam, cock stuffing him hard and hot, Sam almost feels like crying. He works his hips backwards, trying to get more inside him; spreads his legs in offering.

\---

            Sam used to wonder what it was like to be in love.

            When he was younger, he watched his father and his mother clean the house together, hold hands in the holy house.

            But the spring of his tenth year, the town’s sacrifice had neglected his responsibility, strayed from the path.

            That summer brought fire, unbearable and uncontrollable and his mother was swallowed in a grass fire.

            Afterwards, his father had mourned for years. He put her things away; he refused to speak of her. The house became shabby and lightless and so Sam’s clearest memories of love are also about grief.

            The man Sam travels with seems to know nothing of grief. To Sam, he is laughter and warmth and the smell of the forest.

            Sam wonders, after the sacrifice, if grief will touch these memories for the man.

            Sam does not want to assume. He knows that for the man, this is probably not a first encounter. But for Sam it is the beginning and the end.

            When Sam prays, the few days he has before they reach the altar, he prays for the man’s happiness. He prays he does not leave a mark.

\---

            Sam recognizes where they are, from the stories.

            The forest has become denser; the sky is barely visible through the thick, dark trees. There is little birdsong, the cold creeps in under his clothes.

            When he began, he did not expect to be this terrified.

            “Where are you going?” He asks the man after long hours of silence. The man has gripped his hand the entire time, and at this question, Sam feels his grip tighten.

            All he is says in response is Sam’s name.

            Sam had thought, in the quiet hours after the man fell asleep beside him, that this was the truth of it.

            “I forgive you,” he says quietly, and the man pulls him closer, meets Sam’s eyes with a look that hits Sam deep in the chest.

            “Sam,” the man repeats, and Sam thinks he could forgive the man a hundred times over.

\---

            Sam ties his mare when the path becomes treacherous.

            “Will you come back for her?” Sam asks the man, and the man nods once, jerkily.

            “You can still go back, Sam,” he says, “You could leave the path.”

            Sam shakes his hair, “I could not live with it.”

            The man turns from Sam, voice coming cracked and soft through the space between them, “You will not live with it, either.”

            Sam is not alone, then, in all of this.

            The man will be, though, and soon. With that, the seed of grief is planted in Sam’s chest, roots twisting around his ribs.

\---

            The path narrows so that Sam and the man must walk in a single line. The man leads again, turns to look at Sam occasionally, speaking of villages and places Sam has never—will never see.

            His voice is light though, and for a while, it is soothing to Sam.

            It gets darker, though. The air gets colder. Sam stumbles on the path, and the man places a hand on his back to steady him.

            His hand is warm and gentle, and Sam starts to cry.

            He tries to keep quiet, but the man grips his shoulder, turns Sam to face him anyway. He pulls him close, wraps his arms around him, let’s Sam bury his face into his shoulder.

            “I want to stay,” Sam says.

            “We can turn back, Sam, I can come with you.”

            Sam allows himself to imagine it for a moment. He imagines leaving the forest, coming out into the sunlight with the man beside him. In a city, he may never hear of his village again.

            But he thinks of the village then. Thinks of his mother burned by the fires of the last failed sacrifice, the scramble to send someone else on the path—a girl no older than ten. Of Jessica in the village now, his father, the other children and mothers and how winter would be there soon. It would be difficult to send someone in the winter, to take his place.

            The fire could consume the forest, start for the cities. Spread and devour and it would not stop even then.

            Sam pulls himself back, pushes back from the man.

            “I have to go,” Sam says.

            The man nods, rubs a hand down Sam’s back, up again, hesitates on the space between his shoulder blades.

            “Does it hurt?” Sam asks.

            “Not for very long,” the man says, leans forward, sucks at the pulse of Sam’s neck like they have time.

\---

            The narrowest part of the path only goes for a mile or so before Sam sees the altar. It’s dark and wide looking, a single stream of sunlight making it’s way through the trees to make it visible.

            Sam feels his throat tighten, turns back to meet eyes with the man and finds that he is gone. Sam had not even heard his footsteps leave him.

            Sam supposes the man had done his duty. He had led him to the altar, and now, all that was left was to see Sam bleed out. Sam would not have wanted to see either.

            It is selfish of him to want the man to be there, he thinks, steps hesitantly forward.

            From the shadows of the altar, a man emerges.

            His eyes flick up to Sam, a deep yellow, and Sam wonders at how normal the demon looks otherwise.

            “Azazel,” he says.

            “Samuel,” the demon replies, gestures to the altar he stands behind, “I thought perhaps you had been led astray.”

            Sam shakes his head, approaches the altar with purposefully smooth strides, sprawls out on the cold stone and closes his eyes.          

            “Not one for conversation?” Azazel asks, “I do wonder what Dean found appealing about that.”

            _Dean,_ Sam thinks, grasps at it with his mounting panic, a fraying rope thrown to him off the edge.

            _Dean, Dean, Dean_ he thinks, and tries not to feel the rough hands grasping at him, turning him over.

            _Dean,_ he thinks, right up until he feels something pierce his back.

            Then all he knows is pain, the heavy, disgusting heat of blood filling his mouth; how he wants to vomit, but all his throat forces up is more blood

            “Sam,” he hears, feels more pressure on his back. He wishes it would stop. Everything feels heavy enough.

Darkness starts in at his vision, and his last thought is of green eyes and how they were wrong.

It has hurt for quite a long time

\---

            When Sam wakes to a hand combing through his hair. He does not open his eyes for some time, just revels in the touch, how his body is entirely without pain.

            When he opens his eyes, he’s not surprised to see the man—Dean, looking down at him.

            “Knew it,” Sam says, grips the back of Dean’s neck, pulls him down to kiss him.

            “Sammy,” Dean says when they break apart, “You worried me.”

            Sam smiles, thumbs across Dean’s soft bottom lip, “I was worried about you,” he replies, “But I needn’t have been. Should have known you would be here.”

            Sam smiles, and for the first time, casts a quick glance around his surroundings.

            He is still laid out on the altar, he realizes. He has not moved. Something cold creeps into him. He shifts, and beneath him he feels a cold, heavy wetness soaking into his back.

            “Dean,” He says, tries to sit up. Dean helps him.

            Sam is still in the forest. It is nighttime now, and no light pierces the forest but Sam knows. He knows that he is still where he died—he died, and he woke up here. And Dean was there, Dean, and his hands gripping Sam’s upper arm, still sending something shameful and hot through Sam’s body.

            “Hell,” Sam chokes, tears burning behind his eyes.         

            “What?” Dean says.

            “What are you going to do with me?” Sam asks, wonders if it will be a sharper pain with Dean doing it.

            “Sam,” Dean says, “I am not going to hurt you.”

            _Oh_ Sam thinks with a dawning horror, “What are they going to do to you?”

            Dean shakes his head, sits on the altar next to Sam, the sound of sticky blood touching his clothes as he settles.

            “You are not in hell, Sam” Dean says, voice sounding like a laugh, “This is the world you have always known.”

            “I died,” Sam says.

            “And I brought you back,” Dean replies.

            Sam frowns, “How could you—what happened to Azazel—I—I do not understand.”

            Dean runs a hand down Sam’s back, just as he had before. When he pauses between his shoulder blades, Sam does not feel even a twinge.

            “I had no idea, Sammy,” Dean replies, “When I saw you bleeding out there, I surprised even myself.”

            “What?”

            “Azazel called, and when I saw you—you were so beautiful, even in death, I thought, I cannot have him like this—“

            “Dean, I do not—“

            “Sam, I am trying to explain,” Dean smiles, “You were quiet with Azazel, come, now.”

            “You—you heard?”

            “Sam.” Dean snaps, and Sam goes quiet.

            “And then Azazel presented you like some common sacrifice—you, Sam. I tried with you like I have not for centuries, and even after I had you, even when you loved me, you would not leave the path.”

            Sam feels his breathing grow shallow, the smell of his own old blood already going putrid.

            “And he was so careless, too, Sam,” Dean continues, “You should have seen what he did with your back. He butchered it.”

            “He will not touch you again, Sam, though. I promise you that.”

            “Dean,” is all Sam can manage.

            “Sam,” Dean replies, voice light with humor.

            “We can go anywhere, now,” Dean says, pauses, “Well, first, we must go to village.”

            “Village?” Sam says faintly.

            “I am still hungry, Sammy,” Dean replies, “But I know how much it means to you. No fires, just a single life, a sacrifice in your place.”

            “You do not have to come with me,” Dean says softly, “I am sure you of all people cared for your village,” he scoffs then, “You probably still care, even after they sent you to me.”

            Sam nods. He thinks he has it figured out, then. He thinks he understands. Still, when he looks at Dean, he cannot bring himself to fear him.

            “Can you wait till spring?” Sam tries, and Dean tilts his head, “I suppose I could,” Dean replies after a pause.

            “The taste of your come, Sammy,” Dean says, voice a low drawl that Sam is ashamed to say still curls warm in his stomach, “It is almost sweet enough to sustain me for many seasons.”

            “Almost?” Sam says, voice breathless from what he tells himself is fear.

            “Almost.” Dean replies, leans forward and pecks the side of Sam’s mouth.

            “I can think of something, though, that would make it sweet enough for _decades.”_

            “What?” Sam says, already turning to capture Dean’s mouth in his. Sam feels Dean smile against him, can feel the barest brush of teeth against his lips.

            “Taste,” Dean says, leans back for a moment, and when he leans back in his lips are slick with something Sam knows is blood—he knows, but it tastes nothing like the heavy copper coating his back.

            This is—this tastes like Dean. Tastes like shame and sex and heat. Tastes like what Sam was never able to say no to, not even on the path.

            Sam licks Dean’s bottom lip.

            “Sammy,” Dean says happily.

            _For the village,_ the thought flashes in Sam’s mind briefly, but the taste of Dean quickly clouds his head.

            “Is that a yes, Sam?” Dean says.

            Sam groans, nods once and sucks greedily on Dean’s bottom lip.

            “My little martyr,” Dean says fondly, reaches down to grip Sam’s cock.

            Sam arches into it unthinkingly, allows Dean to maneuver him off the altar, onto the softer forest floor.

            He spreads his legs, let’s Dean slide in between them.

            Dean grins down at him, and Sam hooks a leg around Dean’s waist.

            “Beautiful,” Dean says, ducks down quickly to nip at Sam’s neck.

            Sam is frustrated—wants Dean’s mouth back on his. Wants more of the taste instantly, craves it like he did not know he could crave something.

            “Hush, Sammy,” Dean says. Sam did not realize it, but he had been whimpering.

            He was hungry.

            “I know, sweet boy,” Dean says, grinds against Sam leisurely, still does not kiss him.

            “I know all about hunger.”

            Sam whines—cannot think of a single word. His mind is filled only with wanting, everything in him is aching for Dean.

            “Oh yes,” Dean says softly, and then he leans down again and Sam tastes his blood for a second time.

            He laps at it without finesse, he bites at Dean’s lips and does not wonder if it is hurting him.

            No, Sam thinks, he is not hungry. He is ravenous.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Expanded warnings: Sam is stabbed in the back like in all hell break's loose. He is revived by Dean, but technically his world does go "black". There is a long scene where the smell of old blood, feel of it, etc it talked about. Sam drinks blood from Dean's lips. He craves the blood pretty much instantly. There are sections talking about a holy book which is pretty obviously a bible, there is an altar, sacrifices, and sin mentioned. Sam has shame about his sexuality based on religion. 
> 
> Like idk???? do you see what the ending devolved into???? DO YOU SEE????? LIKE......I DON"T EVEN KNOW WHAT HAPPENED THERE.......I ALMOST HAD LIKE A GAME OF THRONES SEX ON AN ALTAR THING BUT LIKE I RESISTED BUT STILL.....i hope you liked it lmao i mean i don't know how i feel about it but i hope you enjoyed. also if i forgot to tag anything please let me know!!!!


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